


Kill Them With Kindness (or something like it)

by Kacka



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 10:35:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10512009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kacka/pseuds/Kacka
Summary: Clarke thought subletting Miller's room for the summer would be a perfect solution: convenient, affordable, and it comes furnished. Unfortunately, it also comes with his roommate, who for some reason, hates her.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AshesAndDrums](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshesAndDrums/gifts).



> Yes, I'm still alive. No, I don't have any explanation as to why I haven't been writing fic, except I was trying for a while to write fake dating and I'm so bad at it I gave myself writer's block. C'est la vie or something.
> 
> This is for Ashleigh, aka @AshesAndDrums aka @craniumhurricane on tumblr. Happy birthday, dear! Hope it's a great one :)

Clarke can pinpoint the moment she realized subletting Miller’s room over the summer was a bad idea, and it’s the moment she gets woken up at five in the morning to the sound of someone singing in the shower.

And by someone, she means one Bellamy Blake.

It’s not so much singing as it is humming along to the radio and chiming in when he can guess the end of a phrase, but he’s enthusiastic and loud and obnoxiously awake for such an early morning.

She groans and pounds on the wall with the flat of her hand and he pauses, but it’s only a moment later that he’s cranking the volume up.

Obscenities spill from her lips as she drags herself out of bed and over to her dresser. It’s been less than one week of antagonizing each other and she's already over it. Over him purposefully leaving the toilet seat up, over his derision when she tries to make conversation, over the energy it takes to argue with him constantly (because there's no way she’s backing down).

She’s starting to wonder if job experience is really worth the hassle of rooming with Bellamy. As an intern, she’s underpaid and overworked, and often wants nothing more at the end of a long day than to come home and relax. She guesses the one perk is that if she gets to the office early enough she can catch a quick nap. Or at least get away from the asshole one door down the hall.

But of course, he catches her while she’s waiting for her coffee to finish brewing, ambling into the kitchen like he owns the place. Which he does not; Clarke is paying fifty percent rent, per her agreement with Nate. She has just as much right to be here as he does and she’s not about to let him run her out.

“Morning, Princess.”

She glares, which only serves to deepen Bellamy’s smirk. “Morning, Shakira.”

“It was Rihanna, thanks,” he says lightly, reaching around her and swiping the coffee before it’s even done trickling out of the Keurig.

“Hey, that’s mine,” she sputters, reaching for the mug. He jerks it out of reach, but the scalding liquid sloshes over the side and down the sleeve of his white dress shirt.

“ _Dammit_!”

He lets her take the mug back-- _her_ insulated travel mug, she might add-- and quickly starts unbuttoning the shirt, revealing the somewhat tight, somewhat see-through undershirt beneath. She works to keep her scowl up. It’s going to take more than his huge arms and perfect chest and artfully tousled hair and glasses to get on her good side. His hotness doesn't change the face that he's a dick.

“Karma,” she gloats, snapping the lid on and gathering her things.

Now it’s his turn to glare. “I don’t think it counts as karma if you intervened for your own justice.”

“I’m not the one who spilled it.”

“It’s _my_ coffee, in _my_ kitchen.”

“Which I am paying rent to use for the next three months.”

He sighs, glowering at the sleeve he’s holding under the running sink. “Three months too long when I didn't even want you here in the first place. Just stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours.”

Anger and hurt flare within her unexpectedly. “Fine,” she says, cold, and grabs her things. “The less I have to see you, the better.”

“Back at you, Princess.”

She throws up a middle finger as she walks out the door, gratified to hear him huff (in irritation? in amusement?) before the door slams behind her.

* * *

Clarke didn’t immediately hate Bellamy Blake, not the way she does with some people. All her instincts told her he was a good guy-- he’s friends with Miller, obviously dotes on his baby sister, helped Raven get through the Finn thing. He’s the guy most of her friends would call if their car got stuck in a ditch somewhere, dependable and wanting to help.

Unfortunately, he’s only ever treated Clarke with contempt. Whatever she did to offend him at the offset, she’s sure she hasn’t made anything better between them by matching him insult for insult, hatred for hatred.

Still, when it came to finding a place to stay for the summer, she hadn’t thought twice about jumping at Miller’s offer. It’s reasonably within her means, it’s close to the train she takes to work, and it’s fully furnished. All she had to do was promise not to hook up on his bed.

“Don’t worry,” she’d said, patting Miller’s arm patronizingly. “There are plenty of other places I can hook up. There’s the couch, the kitchen counter, the shower…”

He’d made a face, shoving her hand away. “Let’s just agree that you hook up at their place, yeah? Or somewhere semi-public, even. I don’t know your kinks.”

“And let’s keep it that way.”

“I beg of you.” He’d paused, thoughtful. “Besides, I’m pretty sure Bellamy would kill your mood pretty quickly if you tried to hook up in any of the common areas.”

"Oh." She'd frowned. "I kind of forgot about him."

Miller studied her out of the corner of his eye. "That gonna be a problem for you?"

"We're adults, Miller. We can be roommates for a few months without murdering each other. Probably."

“If you say so," he said dubiously. And rightfully so, because it turns out Clarke might murder Bellamy after all.

* * *

**Me:** How do you put up with this all the time?

**Miller:** Admitting defeat already?

**Me:** As if Blake hasn’t been texting you nonstop since he spilled his coffee this morning

**Miller:** …  
No comment.

**Me:** That’s what I thought

* * *

It’s surprisingly easy to stay out of each other’s way over the next week or so. Bellamy cuts down on the shower singing after his run, though she gets used to waking up to the pipes whistling in the walls before the sunrise. She starts remembering to clear her hair out of the drain and carry her empty pizza boxes to the dumpster instead of leaving them in the top of the trash.

It's not quite like living alone, not with how hard she's working to avoid giving him reason to snap at her, but she does find that it's incredibly lonely all the same.

The full-time employees at her internship are all much older than she is, with families they go home to every night. They don’t go out with her for drinks, don’t invite her over on the weekend to hang out. All her friends have scattered for various vacations and employment opportunities. Even her mom decided to take some time off for once, accompanying her boyfriend on one of his business trips.

Avoiding Bellamy’s gaze at home, hiding herself away in her room when he’s using the television or the stove, timing her trips to pee when she knows she won’t see him, makes her feel far more isolated than she thought she would. Who knew she’d miss fighting with him so much? Certainly not Clarke.

A couple more days go by and she Skypes with Raven, who spends most of the call fawning over her NASA internship and bemoaning the Florida summer like the normal human being Clarke sometimes forgets she is beneath the badass. She goes to the gym and chats up the cute desk attendant. She even goes on a Tinder date in an effort to make some sort of human connection.

But it’s all exhausting. It’s not the kind of human interaction she wants, the kind where she’s so comfortable with the person next to her she can relax and be her grumpy, slightly assholeish self.

The first thing she does when she gets back from her date is slip her heels off, automatically moving them to sit on the rack by the door. In a fit of-- she doesn’t even know what. Maybe idleness, maybe annoyance, maybe even goodwill-- she sorts through the jumble of other shoes in the way, the one she hears Bellamy trip over on his way out the door in the morning, lining his neatly up on the shelves and snagging her extraneous pairs to toss in the bottom of her closet.

It’s a tiny gesture. One she’s certain will go unnoticed by him, even if it feels like an olive branch to her. Well, maybe not an olive branch. Maybe an olive twig. But it feels like a start.

* * *

The next morning, she finds her travel mug on the drying rack. It gives her pause, since she’s _certain_ she’d forgotten to wash it out the night before.

Knowing that Bellamy has already left for work, she lets herself smile an actual smile.

* * *

The next morning, a cup of coffee is waiting for him on the counter. The day after that, she finds a note by her keys, telling her he made way too much food and she can take some of his leftovers for lunch if she wants.

It becomes a personal challenge for her to find some way to one-up Bellamy’s good deeds. She replaces the water filters and leaves the empty box right in the top of the recycling where she knows he’ll see it. He irons a shirt she left by the washing machine and leaves it hanging on her doorknob. She makes sure to buy the kind of cereal he likes when they run out. He records the last half of a movie for her when she falls asleep in front of the television.

It’s probably the weirdest competition she’s ever been a part of (and that’s saying something), especially given they haven’t actually spoken to each other in weeks.

The whole thing comes to a head when he comes home early one day to find her balanced precariously on a stepladder, straining up to reach the light in his bedroom ceiling that has burned out.

“Need a hand, Princess?”

She startles and nearly falls, but one of his hands presses lightly between her shoulder blades, the other finding her waist, steadying her. “This is why you wait for someone tall,” he grumbles, without the heat behind his words she’s so accustomed to.

“Yeah? When do they get here?” She teases, aiming to keep her voice equally friendly. The corners of his lips twitch, betraying the smile he’s holding back.

“I’ve got like five inches on you.”

“Hence the ladder.” She steps up another step, bracing her hand on his shoulder for balance. His hand is still on her back, the barest pressure of fingertips like he’s not sure he’s allowed to spot her. He doesn’t move it until she’s safely back on the ground.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“That’s kind of the whole point, isn’t it?” She offers him a small smile and he gives her a crooked one in return, the likes of which she’s never seen him direct at her before. “Besides, I can’t just let you win.”

He laughs, sharp. “I didn’t know it was a competition.”

“Yeah, you did.”

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling still. “Yeah. I did.” He pauses. “You hungry? I have stuff to make tacos.”

“I always have room for tacos.”

“Cool.” He jerks his head toward the door, letting her out first and following her path to the kitchen.

“What can I do?”

His eyebrows drift upward. “You want to help cook?”

“I assume I’ll be well-supervised.”

“Yeah,” he say slowly, like he’s trying to figure her out. “I do recall Miller refusing to let you near the oven for Monty’s birthday brownies.”

“It was a _box mix_ ,” she mutters. “It’s not even that hard.”

He grins briefly. “Nice to know you're human too. How do you feel about chopping peppers?”

“I feel like I'll never improve at cooking if I'm not given the chance.”

“Fine,” he snorts. “You can brown the meat. Just let me get the fire extinguisher to have on hand.”

She pauses, her comeback slipping away. “We have a fire extinguisher?”

“Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Miller makes fun of all my worrying, but I figure that's better than not having one when you need it.”

“Prepare for the worst, hope for the best,” Clarke supplies.

Bellamy gives her another crooked, but seemingly genuine, smile. “Not like you can relate, I'm sure.”

“Me? Relate to you?” She teases. “Never.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

They successfully make it through the meal prep without either the food or this newfound truce between them going up in flames. When the tacos are ready, Clarke starts to carry her plate to her room, but pauses in the doorway, not quite ready to go back to her isolation.

“Mind if I join you?”

He pushes his glasses up on his nose, looking up in mild surprise. “That depends. You okay with early Game of Thrones? I’m pretty far behind.”

“You mean, am I okay with listening to you talk back to the TV about everything they got wrong?” She teases. He ducks his head.

“Guilty.”

“I stopped watching after season two.” She settles in next to him on the couch, a reasonable distance still separating them. “I wouldn’t mind a refresher. And I definitely don’t mind audience participation.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen you watch college basketball. I had no idea you were such an-- invested fan.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with a little school spirit.”

“Or a lot of school mania.”

His tone is so dry, she has to smile.

“Exactly. I guess we have more in common than we thought.”

He’s quiet for a moment, long enough she looks over at him. He’s watching her carefully.

“What?”

“I don't know.” He shrugs. “I always kind of thought we had too much in common. At least, in terms of personality. And that's why we didn't get along.”

It's probably true. They both like to take charge, both think they know what's best. They both let tensions escalate until they couldn't even be in the same room together. They both scoffed at the idea of being the bigger person.

Still, she can imagine what it would be like if she and Bellamy let themselves be on the same team, instead of defaulting to the offensive. It could be so good.

“I think we probably didn't get along because we didn't try,” she says fairly. “But I think we could start trying.”

“I’d like that,” he says, gruffness in his tone as if he's embarrassed to admit it.

She pretends not to notice, hiding her smile. “Yeah, so would I.”

* * *

**Miller:** everything okay over there? The radio silence is starting to worry me.

**Me:** What exactly are you imagining happened?

**Miller:**   


**Miller:** You murder him, he murders you, then I come home and you both murder me.

Clarke snorts ungracefully and nudges Bellamy with her toe. Watching Game of Thrones and eating together has become somewhat of a given whenever they’re both home and free on the same night. As the weeks have gone by, they’ve become far more comfortable with one another, less awkward, forced space between them. When he turns to frown at her she shows him Miller’s texts, his disgruntled expression turning into a fond eye-roll.

“And he acts like I’m the dramatic one.”

“You can both be the dramatic one,” she says reassuringly. He flicks the bottom of her foot in retaliation before pulling out his own phone, which presumably has a similar check-in waiting on it. When she goes to respond, she sees that Miller has sent another follow-up:

**Miller:** Note that I’m primarily worried for my own safety.

**Me:** You loooooove us

**Miller:** Seriously, though. Are you guys good?

Clarke peeks up at Bellamy, who is smiling down at his own phone, relaxed and happy in a way he didn’t used to be around her. Something warm glows within her, and she bites her lip on her own smile.

_We’re good_ , she responds, amazed to find that it’s true.

* * *

By the time July starts to draw to a close, Clarke and Bellamy have settled into a routine she’s pretty comfortable with: cooking together most nights, friendly bickering over whose turn it is to do the dishes, saving memes to her phone to show him next time she sees him, even texting to let the other know when their plans change and they won’t be home when expected.

The shower singing is back in full force too, but it doesn’t bother her so much. She’s used to getting up early now, even kind of likes feeling like she gets more out of her day. From time to time, she’ll even wake before he gets back, passing him in the hall on her way from the bathroom.

“I get the full concert today,” she’d teased the first time it happened, partially as a defense mechanism.

His skin was brown from the sun and glowing with sweat, his perfect, perfect hair curling even more with the humidity, and he kept using the hem of his shirt to wipe sweat from his face, which gave her a view of his abs she didn’t need, but definitely appreciated. Reminding herself what a dork he was should’ve helped curb the impulse to jump his bones, but somehow it only heightened her attraction.

He’d snorted, oblivious. “A rare occasion. Got any requests?”

“Know any Celine Dion?” She smirked.

“Nope,” he said cheerfully. “But that’s never stopped me before.”

Now, she’ll leave notes on the counter with other embarrassing requests, everything from Spice Girls to High School Musical ("it's from High School Musical _2_ , Clarke. Get it right.") which he commits to with admirable zeal.

She always makes enough coffee for both of them in the mornings, and he always packs two lunches with whatever’s left over from dinner.

“It’s easier this way,” he’d grumbled, the first time she pointed it out to him. Like he’s embarrassed. “I did this for me and O for years. I’m just used to it.”

“Hey, I’m not complaining.”

“Just being an asshole about it.”

“Takes one to know one.”

She’s dreading the end of the summer in a way she wouldn’t have believed a few months ago. Wondering if going back to normal life will mean reverting to the way things were between her and Bellamy. Hoping it won’t.

Her last night, they linger on the couch longer than usual, splitting a six pack of hard cider and slouching closer and closer with each episode. At some point, she realizes his arm is around her, her head on his shoulder, and he's playing with the ends of her hair with such familiarity it makes her ache.

"I'm glad we're friends now," she says softly. 

He laughs a little. "You drunk?"

"Nope. I'm 100% in my right mind, believe it or not."

"It is a little hard to believe," he admits, and she thinks he might kiss her hair but it's hard to tell from this angle. "But I'm really glad too."

"Why didn't you like me before?" She wonders. He tenses under her until she pokes him in the side, reminding him that it's behind them, and then he relaxes again.

"It's so stupid."

"Good. Then I get to be smug."

"Do you understand the concept of an incentive?"

"Hey, I was an asshole to you because you were an asshole to me," she points out. "It doesn't get stupider than that. I could've given you more than, you know, the one chance."

"Might not have helped." He sighs. "I mean, I'd had a pretty bad day, that first time we met, but it was also-- I'd heard so much about you from Miller and Raven and Lincoln, and everybody kept telling me how great you were. How much I'd like you, how alike we are in certain ways. It felt like they were trying to set me up or something."

"How dare they," she deadpans.

"Well, I'd just had a pretty bad breakup. I wasn't looking for anything else that soon. And--" She can hear his self-deprecating grin. "I was annoyed enough about it that I went kind of full-- You're telling me to do this thing so I'm definitely not going to do it."

"You're telling me I'd like this girl, so I'm going to hate her instead," Clarke says, and laughs. "That is stupid."

"Believe me, I know." He tugs her closer. "Even after I figured out what I was missing out on, I didn't know how to be normal with you. Or how to get a clean slate. It started at a low point and devolved from there."

"It's okay," she pats his arm. "I don't hate you anymore either."

"Good, because I'm hoping you'll go on a date with me this weekend."

She freezes, then pulls back to grin at him. He looks way too nervous for how on top of him she was just laying.

"This doesn't count as a date?" She asks, winding her fingers in the curls at the nape of his neck. 

He grins, bright and beautiful, the way she never even used to imagine he could.

"This can count," he assures her. "Netflix and actual chill. But I want one this weekend, too. I want a lot."

She can't help herself; she has to lean in and kiss him at that, has to find out what he tastes like under her tongue, what he feels like under her hands. He pulls her more into his lap, both of them fighting smiles as they trade playful, happy kisses. He only pulls back when she slips her hands under his shirt, starting to urge it off.

"I don't put out on the first date," he teases, and she nips at his lip before leaning back and ripping her own shirt off.

"If tonight counts, we've had like a million dates," she points out, tipping his chin up when he gets caught up staring at her chest. He kisses her again, hotter and deeper this time, crushing her against him.

"Maybe, but-- Hard to get is a thing for a reason, right? Gotta leave them wanting more?"

"I want as much as I can get, Bellamy."

She can feel him press his smile into the juncture of her neck and shoulder, like he just can't hold it back.

"Yeah, okay. That's pretty hard to argue with."

"That's what I thought."

* * *

**Me:**  Left your key on the counter. May have lost a necklace somewhere, so be on the lookout for that. Washed sheets and put new ones on. Did not hook up on your bed.

**Miller:**  tfg

**Me:**  The couch, however...

**Miller:**  Please say you're kidding

**Me:**  Let's just say Bellamy isn't the mood killer I thought he'd be ;)

**Miller:**  I'm going to murder you both  
I mean I'm happy you guys figured your shit out  
BUT AT WHAT COST, CLARKE?

**Me:**  #best summer ever


End file.
